Reclusion
by InkFairy
Summary: Arthur adds another member to his, Ariadne, and Eames' team. The new addition can suppress people's subconscious, but it's her past relationship with Eames that's the mystery, as well as her ties to Cobol Engineering. Arthur/Ariadne, Eames/OC.
1. The Filter

Disclaimer: All hail Christopher Nolan! I am but a dreamer.

**Reclusion**

Chapter 1: The Filter

* * *

They're an official team now.

Of course, there's nothing 'official' in the world of dreams and extraction. It was the first thing Arthur had firmly impressed upon her when she cornered him in the airport shop at LAX, demanding in a low but adamant voice to be part of the next job. He told her they had been lucky Saito had enough political leverage to clear all the security checks for them. He told her they had been lucky the inception resulted in a situation with no real losers that would plague her pristine conscience. He told her she might as well thank her lucky stars now and walk away while she still could, fly back to Paris, and become a real, honest architect.

She told him to shut up.

Eames, who had been hidden behind a rack of postcards silently perusing the latest issue of Penthouse magazine, chuckled and told Arthur he might as well hire her, seeing as she was the best damn architect he'd ever met and they'd have a fucking hard time finding one who could suit their needs after being spoiled by her. Arthur didn't dignify this crude statement with an answer and strolled out of the shop with The Wall Street Journal tucked under his arm.

The three of them left the airport that afternoon in three separate cabs that drove to three separate hotels. But by the next morning, they were all back at LAX with new names and passports, flying coach to Rome.

They left Cobb in suburbia with his children and parents-in-law. (Catching a glimpse of Professor Miles when they had landed, Ariadne had had to glance at her phone to remember that summer vacation started two weeks ago.) The scrolling news ticker on CNN had told them that Saito had just inked a lucrative deal that morning, even as his former rival was being laid to rest. Yusuf was newly arrived in the city of sin, having rented a car upon landing and braving the Los Angeles rush hour traffic to start his drive to Las Vegas.

Squished between Eames and Arthur in the middle section of the plane, smirking over the former's attempt to chat up the woman across the aisle and enduring the silence of the latter, Ariadne mentally began to compose the letter she would send to the department of student affairs at the university, regretfully informing them of her desire to discontinue her studies at their esteemed institution.

It was a letter she never sent. The Rome job wasn't nearly as clean as the Fischer inception had been. Even though it was a simple extraction, so simple that Eames had scoffed when Arthur outlined the situation for them, things had gone very wrong.

Their employer had been an art collector whose drive for acquisition bordered on the obsessive. The Mark had been some young Italian prince, and the information was over the whereabouts of some priceless piece of art. They found out in the middle of the dream that he had no clue where the painting was, had hardly any recollection of it other than being yelled at for touching it when he was a child.

With Eames swearing up a storm and Arthur white with anger, they had prepared to exit the dream. But the memory continued. The Mark's mother swooped in, defending her little boy against the rage of his father - who turned out wasn't even his father. Arthur and Eames shot the Mark, but they weren't fast enough.

When he woke up, the Mark fully remembered the suppressed memory. He remembered he wasn't really the heir of all the modest but comfortable wealth around him. He remembered his father wasn't really his father, but he was the result of the incestuous rape of his mother by his grandfather.

Arthur, Ariadne, and Eames, exiting the villa from the servants' entrance, all looked up just in time to see the Mark hurl himself to his death from the top of the villa.

When they went to the airport the next morning, separately but all destined for the same flight to Brazil, Ariadne stopped at the ticket counter and changed her flight for one to Paris. She thought she could leave without either of them noticing, but just as she was handing in her ticket at the gate, she saw Arthur watching her from across the terminal. A large group of high school students on holiday blocked her vision of him, and when they had passed, he was gone. She boarded the plane.

Her apartment and the Paris heat proved to be too boring after two days, so she enrolled in classes for the summer term, trading in her freedom for the air-conditioned university libraries, trying to make up for all the work she had missed. After giving it one last flick, she put away her totem. She sold to the thrift store down the street the scarf she had bought in Italy, destroyed her two fake passports, and changed her phone number. She knew it would be no problem at all for the Point Man to find out her new number, but hopefully it would deter Eames from calling when he got drunk, begging her to come back, especially since Arthur had been unbearable since she left.

By fall, she was back on track to graduate at the end of the school year, which is exactly what she did, with honors. She accepted the only job offer she got at an upcoming but upscale firm in New York City and began her career as a real, honest architect. She was interviewing a couple that had just bought land near the Hamptons. They were new money but trying desperately to look like old and failing miserably. The woman, especially, was having a difficult time keeping up the act. Her clothes might be designer, but her vocabulary and education hadn't been. She peppered her sentences with architects and buildings that had no business being mentioned in the same speech.

But she hadn't made her money without being shrewd, so she finally paused, took in Ariadne's patient but carefully schooled expression, and said plainly she didn't want her home to be a maze but something easily seen as big, grand, and rich.

Ariadne promised she would work something out and scheduled an appointment for them to come in next week, when she'd have some preliminary sketches done for them.

Later that evening, as she sat in her office, her client's words echoed in her head. _Not a maze._ She looked down at her sketch of the most boring building she had ever designed and knew she couldn't do it anymore. Her client might not want a maze, but she did. She wanted impossible mazes that defied physics, mazes you could get lost in with a fun Forger whose outfits were defiantly rumpled and a professional Point Man whose outfits defied wrinkles. She wanted five-star hotels, run-down motels, and airport terminals around the world, not this cutting-edge, glass-walled office with her name spelled out on the door and boring clients who wanted increasingly boring homes to fit their boring lives.

Ariadne blinked. She could just make out a figure across the street. Surely it couldn't be Arthur, sacrificing his pressed Armani suit in the unforgiving downpour? A car turned the street corner, illuminating him for a moment.

Ariadne was out of the office before the car had completed the turn. For the first time, she was glad the entire building had glass walls. She didn't tear her eyes off his figure as she raced through the empty office, not caring if the glass doors she burst through bounced alarmingly against the glass walls.

She was soaked by the time she stood in front of him. Of course he hadn't sacrificed his Armani suit. He was standing beneath an overhang, perfectly dry. As for her, there was no more trace of her carefully curled curls, and she dreaded to think of the state her suede Louboutins were in.

Arthur would tell her later he thought she never looked more beautiful.

The city streets and torrential rain reminded her so much of the first dream level of the Fischer inception that she wished she had her totem with her just to make sure. Then Arthur kissed her, and she knew it had to be reality since she never could have dreamed it that well.

Awhile later, she was wrapped in his jacket, which dwarfed her even though he was far from broad-shouldered. She looked up at him and informed him she would be his architect for the next job and all jobs thereafter.

He told her that wasn't what he expected. He told her she couldn't give up her New York office, $75,000 a year, and growing reputation in the architecture world. He told her they could work it out if he cut back on international jobs and tried to stay around the city. He told her he didn't want extraction to ruin her, to ruin _them._ He told her he didn't want them to end up like Mal and Cobb.

Eames, having abandoned his spot in a doorway a few feet away when they started their make out session and having just completed his fifth circuit of the block, told him to shut up.

Pointedly ignoring him, Arthur asked her why she wanted to go back to extraction now.

Half a dozen answers came to mind. Architecture in the real world was boring. She didn't like New York City. Her office had glass walls. The headboard of the couple next door was always banging against her wall. Any paycheck paled in comparison to the one she got from Saito. She missed getting shot at by projections of someone's subconscious.

She settled on the one that was actually, sadly the most true.

The dress code at work didn't allow scarves.

At 9 o'clock the next morning, Ariadne marched into her boss' office and quit. By eleven, she had cleared out her office, and by three that afternoon, she had cleared out her apartment. She tossed out all her business formal attire, even though she knew she could match Arthur perfectly, and packed her old university clothing: jeans, tanks, sweaters, and scarves. By six o'clock, she was dining with Eames and Arthur at Masa, the most expensive restaurant in the city, and by nine o'clock, she was flying sandwiched between them on a red-eye to L.A. for a quick visit to Cobb before continuing on to Tokyo for their next job.

Tokyo was followed by Moscow, which was followed by Johannesburg, which was followed by Rio de Janeiro and a dozen other cities Ariadne never though she would visit. Arthur bought her a new scarf at each one. Eames said he'd never seen Arthur so romantic.

Saito sent them clients who faced similar predicaments, and in the dog-eat-dog world of business, Ariadne's conscience barely prickled as they helped one company gain an edge over another. Through old contacts, Eames and Arthur also heard about other, more personal jobs. They rarely took these, however, especially after what had happened in Rome.

They visited Cobb whenever they had a stopover at LAX, and there were always visits to Yusuf in Mombasa when they needed the Chemist's concoctions for anything more involved than a simple extraction. But as Cobb stayed in Los Angeles with Philippa and James, and Yusuf with his new and growing family in Mombasa, Ariadne sat squished between Arthur and Eames in coach or stretched out beside them in first class on a flight to their next job.

They were an official team now. Arthur acted as Point Man and Extractor, researching and extracting efficiently and thoroughly, like he did everything else. Ariadne built mazes of increasing difficulty and, after letting slip that she had been particularly good at chemistry in high school, acted as a makeshift Chemist if they couldn't make it to Mombasa between jobs.

Once, when Arthur tersely told her to stop showing off after he got lost for an hour in one of her mazes, she retaliated by dreaming him in sweats. He hadn't commented on her work after that.

Eames continued being a Forger and overall Support Man, with a bit of Comic Relief on the side.

Since about half of their jobs didn't require a Forger, he kept his hand in it by imitating either Arthur or Ariadne to the other. To his disappointment, Ariadne always seemed to figure out it was him after a few moments, and to his horror, Arthur had tried to kiss him once when he was disguised as Ariadne, putting an end to that experiment.

They were in Alaska a year after Ariadne had left her job in New York, researching the life of a recluse who had shuttered himself away more than two years ago, giving up a promising career in science when he was on the verge of a great breakthrough. The engineering organization that hired them was the recluse's former employer, and they wanted to know what it was that he had discovered, in the hopes that it could save their floundering enterprise.

Unfortunately, access to the recluse was hard enough in itself, and Arthur's research indicated that the man had had extensive training in dream defense. Trying to take on his heavily armed mind would be quite futile, especially with just three of them fending off the highly militant projections.

After a moment's silent thought, Arthur suggested they pass up on the job, especially as they had several offers on the table that they could complete in the time it would take to pull off this one. The looks on Ariadne's and Eames' faces ended that discussion.

"Even if – even _when_ we find a way to get into the Mark's home, his mind will be a fortress. There will be a highly organized army waiting for us the second we go under. And with his experience and intelligence, I doubt even your best maze could distract them for long, Ariadne."

"Would it help if Cobb and Yusuf went in this one time?" Ariadne suggested, rubbing her gloved fingers together to generate some warmth.

They were in an empty storage unit with a table, three chairs, and a lamp as their only source of light. She was wearing a down parka that made her look like a miniature version of the Michelin man and several scarves wrapped around her neck. Arthur looked dapper as ever in a wool trench coat over his usual three-piece suit, leather gloves, and a Burberry muffler. Eames, who had had some choice comments about that last article of Arthur's clothing, was wearing a leather jacket with his collar unbuttoned despite the cold.

"I doubt we could convince them to come out, and it's not _how many_ people we have with us, it's the _kind _of people." Arthur wasn't looking at Ariadne but at Eames, who had walked a couple steps away from them and stood with his back toward them. "We need a Filter."

"What's a Filter?" Ariadne asked, filling the silence that followed.

"A Filter is someone who suppresses the Mark's subconscious," Arthur explained. "With someone of little or no training, a Filter would enable us to run around a Mark's mind and build the strangest things without the projections attacking or even noticing. With someone like this Mark, the projections wouldn't be completely neutralized, but they could be held at bay with enough time to perform the extraction."

"Why doesn't every extraction team have a Filter then? It would make every job so much easier."

"Filters are very rare. You have to train a Filter from a very young age, while the brain is still developing. The distance between conscious and subconscious grows as we grow older. That's why children's nightmares always seem so much more frightening to them. A Filter is trained to control - for lack of a better word - their subconscious, and this carries over to another's subconscious in dream sharing."

Ariadne looked shocked. "But who would do that to a child?" she demanded. "Who would choose a life like this for a kid, before they could choose for themselves?" she added, when Arthur raised an eyebrow at her.

"That's why they're very rare. Only someone who knows very well what he's doing can train a Filter without damaging them. It's frowned upon now, which is as close to regulation in the extraction world as you can get. But twenty, thirty years ago, when the technology was being developed, the handful of extractors experimented often."

"Mal," Ariadne gasped. "Is that what Mal was? Did Professor Miles train her to be a Filter?"

"Yes, she's one of the success stories," Arthur said. "Miles knew what he was doing. So many more became deranged, clinically insane, or vegetables when their subconscious was damaged or worse, took over. She was one of two Filters I ever met."

Arthur was looking at Eames again. Ariadne slowly looked from him to Eames, who was still facing away from them, standing outside the circle of light their lamp afforded.

"We don't know if she's still in the business," Eames finally said, not a trace of his usual humor in his voice. "It's been years –"

"Filters don't lose their touch. It's invariably part of them, whether they like it or not. She can still do it even if the last job she did was the Chicago one."

Another long stretch of silence answered Arthur's words, and even though Ariadne was burning to ask questions, she didn't break it.

"Fine," Eames snapped. "But I'm not going to contact her."

"I wasn't going to ask you to," Arthur said neutrally, the definition of professionalism. "I'll track her down, and we can go from there."

"She was living in London a month ago," Eames said grudgingly. "I can give you her contact information back at the hotel."

And without waiting for them, he stalked toward the door and slammed it behind him. They heard the car start but thankfully Eames didn't drive away. Ariadne helped Arthur gather all the notes and documents scattered on the table.

"I'll explain to you back at the hotel," Arthur promised, flicking off the light and plunging them in darkness. Somehow, his hand found hers, and he guided her out into the glaring Alaskan sunlight.


	2. The Catch

Disclaimer: All hail Christopher Nolan. I am but a dreamer.

**Reclusion**

Chapter 2: The Catch

* * *

"Who is this Filter, and why does Eames care so much?" Ariadne demanded once they were in their hotel room.

Having just survived a painfully silent ride back to the hotel, with Eames driving recklessly over the icy, snow-covered road (and probably sometimes off it), Ariadne felt she deserved an immediate explanation.

"Her name's Lacey Kendall, nicknamed 'Ace' by Eames. Born May 19, 1985, red hair, blue eyes, five-foot-four –"

"If you tell me her weight, Arthur, I swear I'll be jealous," Ariadne interrupted dryly.

Arthur, who was busy hanging up his coat in the closet, missed her teasing expression. "I assume you gathered from Eames' little temper tantrum that he was the one involved with her, not me?"

"I assume she came in after Mal died?" Ariadne retorted, finally escaping her parka and tossing it at him.

"Immediately after," Arthur said, neatly catching it with one hand. "We should have taken a break, but Cobb wanted to press on. He was reckless after Mal's death, determined to kill himself over a job if he couldn't get back to his children. He found Lacey through Miles. She was very talented, better than Mal even. She showed no outward signs of a damaged subconscious, which is, in effect, how Filtering operates.

"Cobb had forbidden relationships after what happened to Mal, but Eames of course didn't listen, though he was able to keep it quiet for awhile."

"Did Cobb ever find out?"

"Cobb yelled at her one day. He was harsh, but she had done something stupid. Eames told him not to take that tone with his fiancée unless he wanted to answer for it." Arthur smiled slightly. "Well, they did get into a fight over that, but Eames got his point across, and Cobb really didn't have a choice but to let them be…."

"But?"

Arthur sighed. "But Cobb was pushing all of us, but he pushed her too hard too fast. Our first jobs had Marks with very rudimentary training, but the Chicago job was different. That Mark was well trained. We should have pulled out or changed plans, but Cobb pressured her, and she pushed too hard and damaged the Mark's subconscious."

"What happened?" Ariadne whispered.

"His mind was broken. He went insane. To his credit, Cobb took the blame, and he was more cautious after that, but Ace blamed herself. We took a holiday after that. Eames took Lacey to the French Riviera, but they never showed up at our rendezvous. He later sent us a message saying they were done with the team. Naturally, I did some research –"

"Naturally," Ariadne agreed reprovingly.

He shrugged. "It's my job to know if they were captured or had decided to buy a house in Surrey and start a family."

"I assume it wasn't the latter?"

"It wasn't the former either. Lacey tried to kill herself."

She stared for a moment. "Was – was it like Mal? Did she think she was still dreaming?"

"No, it was guilt. Her conscience always was a problem."

"How'd she do it?"

"Sleeping pills. There's some poetic symmetry in that, isn't there? Eames saved her, but he convinced himself – in some form of dormant chivalry, I suppose – that it was his fault. Once she was stable, he broke off the engagement and disappeared. I didn't see him again until the Fischer job."

"And you think she's going to come back now?"

Arthur shrugged again, and Ariadne found it mildly irritating that he could infuse so much confidence into a gesture that generally indicated uncertainty.

"Dream sharing is a hard thing to say 'no' to when you've done it before."

"You're going to play off her addiction?"

"Have you a better plan? I did suggest we walk away –"

"And we all know you didn't mean it."

A piece of paper bearing Eames' untidy scrawl was slipped under the door that connected their rooms. Arthur stood up to retrieve it and handed it to Ariadne.

_96 Euston Road London NW1 2DB_

"It seems Eames has been keeping tabs … on the British Library," Arthur said in a raised voice.

"She works there, you wanker!" Eames yelled through the door.

"Oh, now I really want to meet her," Ariadne said. "A librarian who could turn Eames off all other women? It's almost too good to be true. How are we going to contact her?"

Arthur was already typing away at his laptop, pulling up her employment record, home address, and telephone numbers.

"We'll need to fly out to London. It's too risky doing this over the phone."

"That, and it would be easier for her to say no."

"That too."

* * *

Eames refused to fly to London, pointing out that he could stay behind and monitor the comings and goings of the recluse.

Arthur pointed out that if their recluse was coming and going, they would have to come up with another name for him.

Eames answered with a barrage of sayings Arthur was wont to utter from time to time when Eames wanted to cut corners: It was better to be safe than sorry. Too much data never hurt anyone. Failing to prepare is preparing to fail. You get was you inspect, not what you expect.

Arthur told him to shut up.

Eames told him to fuck off.

Arthur told him that it wasn't his fault that Lacey had tried to kill herself. He told him that if it was anyone's fault, it had been Cobb's. Arthur told him the only thing he did wrong was walking away from her.

Eames told him _she_ had broken the engagement.

That shut Arthur up.

Though, Ariadne reflected as they sat Eames-less on the plane a couple hours later, her Point Man had looked more upset over the fact that his research had failed to yield that information than for driving Eames to the point of divulging it.

* * *

It was raining in London. Ariadne couldn't remember a time she'd been in London and it hadn't been raining. After she avoided being splashed by a passing bus (Ariadne was sure the puddle wouldn't have dared hit Arthur), they crossed the street under the canopy of Arthur's plain, black umbrella, which obscured her vision as Arthur tilted it against the angle of the rain.

A moment later, Ariadne's soaked Converses were squeaking in the lobby of the British Library. Arthur made a few inquiries at the front desk, a few managers were called, they were escorted into an office, and nearly half an hour later, it was figured out that Lacey Evans hadn't worked there for three months. They were given an address when Arthur flashed some government identification, but someone added they believed Miss Evans had moved out around the same time her employment was terminated.

Ariadne chanced a glance up at Arthur's face as they exited the library, but he betrayed no emotion whatsoever.

"What are we going to do now?" Ariadne asked as they stepped outside.

"I have a few more leads from other aliases she used to use, but let's have dinner first. I have reservations at the North Sea Fish Restaurant."

The restaurant was only two blocks away, but by the time they reached it, the wind was defying even Arthur's handy maneuvering of the umbrella. As they shrugged off their wet coats and Ariadne tried to make herself more presentable, Arthur gave their name to the maître d'.

"Ah, yes, the other member of your party is already here. Right this way, sir, madam."

Ariadne looked questioningly up at Arthur, but he looked as bemused as her. They followed the maître d' to their table, and as they approached, the sole occupant laid down her menu.

Arthur dropped his umbrella.

A passing waiter obligingly picked it up. Nothing was said until they were all seated and the maître d' had left them to ponder over the menu. Ariadne peeked around hers to get a good look at Lacey Kendall.

Ariadne was expecting some sort of Angelina Jolie-esque bombshell, the kind of women Eames hit on or imitated on a job. Yes, her red hair was enough to turn any man's head – even then, some in the restaurant were glancing surreptitiously at her – but she wasn't drop dead gorgeous. She's was pretty, yes. But she was a bit too doe-eyed, her lips a bit too child-like. Not that Ariadne had any business saying someone looked too child-like but –

Ariadne realized she was staring. She quickly glanced down at her menu, noticing too late that she was holding it upside-down.

"You should dye your hair a less noticeable color if you're going to stay in the business," Arthur said without preamble, glaring at a group of college boys that kept glancing their way.

"Arthur, would you mind introducing us?" Her voice was light and lilting, her tone polite but with a hint of command.

"Lacey, this is Ariadne, my Architect. Ariadne, Lacey, the best Filter in the business."

She brushed off the last of his introduction with a wave of her hand as she reached across the table to shake Ariadne's. "Pleased to meet you, Ariadne."

Before Ariadne could reciprocate, Arthur said, "You know why we're here." It wasn't a question.

"I don't want to do it, Arthur," she said in a low voice, toying with the stem of her wine glass, looking anywhere but at him.

"Ace –"

"Eames is your Forger, isn't he?" she asked, a faraway look in her eyes.

Arthur hesitated for only a moment. "Yes."

"Arthur –"

"This isn't going to be like the Chicago job," Arthur said. "We have a lot of time to plan this one out. There's no rush. The Mark is a recluse in Alaska. I'm the Extractor. Cobb doesn't play the game anymore, and I'm not going to push you."

He leaned in closer. "Don't tell me you don't want to go back to dreaming, Lacey," he said tantalizingly. "Even if it's just for this one job, we'll have _hours_ to practice. _Days_ to dream. Ariadne can build the most beautiful structures and cityscapes I've ever seen." Ariadne didn't want anything to do with his baiting her, but she refrained from saying anything … and from kicking him under the table. "If you're worried about Eames, I'll make sure everything is kept at a completely professional level –"

The spell he had wrought over her dissipated. She looked at him with clearer eyes. "There's nothing professional about dream sharing, Arthur. I know you like to create that impression, but sharing dreams with other people is the most personal thing one can ever do." She paused, frowning at the light glancing off her glass. "There must be a catch to it, of course. I assume this recluse has had training?"

"Yes, extensive. More than the Mark in Chicago."

"I've gone in again since then, of course," she said, looking out the window, which was almost opaque with beaded raindrops. "But nothing serious. There's a black market for dream sharing, and those who pay usually don't like getting gunned down by their subconscious. But I haven't been part of an extraction in almost three years."

"We'll practice, of course. Eames' and my mind should be sufficiently guarded."

She turned to look at him. "You think of everything, don't you?"

"That's my job."

A few moments passed in silence. "I'll do it," she finally said. She waited until the group of college boys filed past. One wearing a sweater of an unforgivable shade of green tipsily ran into the edge of their table. Lacey cleared her throat. "I'll want my cut of the price tag."

"Naturally."

"Travel and lodging?"

"All taken care of."

"When do we fly out?"

"Tomorrow." Arthur reached into the breast pocket of his coat and pulled out a plane ticket.

"First-class. I see you're moving up in the world."

"Only sometimes."

Her fingers were shaking slightly as she slipped the ticket into her pocketbook.

"I haven't changed the routine much," Arthur told her. "Split until landing, fare share at curbside. You remember the drill."

She nodded, but her expression was troubled. Arthur reached out and put his hand over hers.

"Ace, it will be a good, clean job. We'll do it right. I promise."

She smiled, but it didn't quite reach her eyes. "That's twice you've called me 'Ace.' You must really need me."

"I wouldn't be asking this of you if I didn't."

She smiled sadly again as she slipped her hand out from under his grasp. She pulled out some money and laid it beside her glass. "I have a few things to take care of before we leave, so you'll excuse me for not staying for dinner." She shook hands warmly with Ariadne. "Sorry, I was quite rude to you tonight. I do look forward to working with you. Arthur's always been quite picky with his Architects, even Dom." She stood. "See you both in the skies."

She was gone in a flash of pale blue peeking out from the folds of a beige trench coat that seemed to glide onto her shoulders. Arthur was just settling down to more seriously peruse the menu when he suddenly stood. He scooped up his coat, grabbed the umbrella with one hand, and took her hand with the other, tugging her toward the door.

The rain was coming down harder than ever. Ariadne jogged to keep up with him as he walked briskly down the block. They both reached the street corner in time to see a head of red hair descend into a black sedan. A man wearing a sweater, the same unforgivable shade of green as the man who had bumped into their table, shut the door behind her and hurried over to slide into the driver's seat. The sedan sped off.

She and Arthur stared at one another as he draped his coat around her shivering form and opened his umbrella.

"Can we trust her?" Ariadne finally asked.

"A few minutes ago, I would have trusted her with my life," he confessed. "We're going to have to keep an eye on her."

"And Eames?"

"I always keep an eye on Eames."

"Should we tell him?" she clarified.

Arthur sighed. "Of course, but – regardless of how I hate his guts sometimes – I won't get any pleasure from shattering his fairytale vision of her."

As he handed her into a cab, she heard him laugh softly, darkly.

"What is it?" she whispered once they had given the driver the name of their hotel.

"Nothing, it's just, it doesn't seem like her conscience is going to be a problem anymore."

* * *

A/N: Please review!


	3. The New Girl

Disclaimer: All hail Christopher Nolan. I am but a dreamer.

**Reclusion**

Chapter 3: The New Girl

* * *

Arthur and Ariadne were sitting in coach, waiting for the rest of the passengers to get on board the plane. Ariadne couldn't help but glance every now and then down the aisle to peer through the curtains that divided them from first class.

She felt Arthur's hand slip under hers, his thumb drawing circles on the back of her hand. "She'll be here," he whispered.

"I'm not sure if that's a good thing or a bad thing."

"Don't worry."

"You first."

He retreated behind his _Wall Street Journal_.

Looking out the window and down onto the tarmac, Ariadne saw the last of the baggage being loaded. She kept flipping open her phone to check the time.

7:04

7:04

7:04

7:05

A stewardess kindly reminded her that phones needed to be turned off completely during takeoff.

The plane engines roared into life. The same stewardess made her way to the front of their section, picked up the PA, and began welcoming the passengers onto the flight and informing them of the safety and exit procedures. The jet bridge began to retract, and Ariadne thought Arthur turned the page of his newspaper a little too harshly, wrinkling the paper.

The bridge stopped moving. The door, which had been sealed, was opened again. Though she didn't catch a glimpse of her telltale red hair, Ariadne saw a flash of pastel green under a beige trench coat before the stewardess reached out to still the curtains, not missing a beat of her speech.

Ariadne leaned back in her seat.

"She's going to freeze in that coat," Arthur muttered from behind his paper.

"Eames'll have an excuse to keep her warm then."

"Oh, I've no doubt there's going to be friction, and I certainly don't mean the sexual kind."

* * *

They landed in Seattle. As they waited in the airport coffee shop for their connecting flight to Anchorage, Ariadne saw no sign of Lacey.

"_Boarding flight 1390, Seattle to Anchorage at Gate 15._"

As they passed through the gate, Ariadne caught a glimpse of a flustered Lacey walking toward them agitatedly. Arthur's hand on her back guided her into the jet bridge, but from the dark look on his face, she knew he had seen her.

* * *

A few hours later, they were landing in Anchorage. Grabbing their carry-ons, they rolled out of the airport and toward the string of cabs waiting at the curb. After depositing their luggage, the driver closed the trunk and was sliding behind the wheel. Ariadne thought Arthur was taking his time getting into the car. He was reaching out to close the door –

A blonde woman in a wool trench coat and a pastel cream dress over dark tights came hurrying toward the cab, her heeled Mary Janes slipping slightly on a patch of ice on the sidewalk.

"Oh, hi, sorry!" she squeaked, jumping into the passenger's seat. She whipped off her sunglasses and smiled cheerily at Ariadne and Arthur. "I'm running a little short on cash, so I thought we could split the fare? We sat next to each other on the plane, remember? We're going to the same hotel?"

"Yes, of course!" Ariadne agreed enthusiastically, since Arthur appeared too angry to speak at the moment. "The Anchorage Marriot, please," she told the cab driver as Lacey squeezed her carry-on into the cab.

Fifteen minutes later, they were at the hotel. Arthur bent to help Lacey maneuver her suitcase and took the opportunity to mutter angrily in her ear.

"What the hell took you so long, Kendall?"

"I had to slip on a pair of tights before I froze to death."

"And change your coat, dress, hair, and shoes too?"

Lacey looked up at him with wide eyes, but before any of them could say anything, the driver was demanding his fee. As they handed him the bills, Arthur shot another sideways glance at her.

"That better be a wig, Kendall."

"You were the one who told me to dye my hair," she said, flippantly tossing her straight, shoulder-length blonde locks.

They chatted like old friends meeting up for an Alaskan getaway as Lacey checked into the room across the hall from them. They went up to their floor together, and Arthur led the way into his and Ariadne's room

"Eames is probably staking out the Mark," Arthur said. "If you want to change into something more comfortable –"

The handle on the connecting door between their rooms rattled.

"Hey, Arthur? Ariadne?" The Brit's voice carried through the door. "Is that you two?"

Arthur started for the door, but Lacey, who was closest to it, was already reaching for the handle. She hesitated for a moment, her hand resting on it.

"Arthur? Ariadne?"

Ariadne thought the look of sadness on Lacey's face was only matched by the one she had seen on Cobb's when she had broken into his dreams of Mal long ago.

"You guys, come on. I know your flight got in half an hour ago. Can you save the fooling around for later tonight?"

The handle rattled again, and Lacey convulsively gripped it and wrenched it open. Eames stood frozen in the doorway, one hand raised to knock on the door that was no longer there.

"Eames," she breathed.

"Ace?"

Belatedly, she snatched her wig off and distractedly ran a hand through her flattened hair.

"Yeah, it's me," she said, each syllable heavy with meaning.

"So you did come," he finally said.

"I did."

Eames cleared his throat. "Right, so – I was just telling – going to tell Arthur – and Ariadne I set up our headquarters in a warehouse outside of town. Um, our Point Man probably wants to – er, get you caught up?" Ariadne had never heard Eames so inarticulate.

The question was directed toward Arthur, who nodded. "Let's meet in the parking garage in fifteen minutes."

"Right, er, see you all there."

Lacey's fingers slipped from the door handle. It slammed shut, causing them all to flinch, but Ariadne caught sight of Eames fiddling with something in his pocket before it closed completely.

"Right, I'll just change into something more comfortable, shall I?" Lacey asked, vaguely headed in the direction of the door. Impulsively, Ariadne hurried after her to hand her the suitcase she left behind. Lacey was fiddling nervously with her necklace.

Ariadne let out a large breath as she closed the door behind Lacey, wishing the tension in the room to disappear.

"Well, that was lovely," she said sarcastically.

"Yeah," Arthur agreed, just stopping himself from running a hand through his perfectly gelled hair. "Just great.

* * *

Lacey leaned heavily against her door, her fingers running over her totem. She let it drop, feeling the familiar weight pull at the chain around her neck. She stared up at the unfamiliar ceiling, her fingers flying to her totem once more.

"This is not a dream," she whispered to herself. "This is _not_ a dream."

* * *

Just down the hall, Eames was running a fingertip over every facet of his totem. He finally pulled it out of his pocket and held it up, watching the light glint off of it as only he knew it could.

"This is a bloody nightmare."

* * *

Arthur drove. Eames practically dove for the passenger seat, but Ariadne was already getting into the backseat to sit next to Lacey.

Ariadne glanced at the other girl's outfit. She was no fashion expert, but being a Point Man's girlfriend (and a fashionable Point Man, at that), she had picked some things up. Lacey's knee-high boots, her military-style wool coat – all were rather expensive. Ariadne was surprised to see that Lacey was still wearing a dress under her trench coat.

"Arthur has his three-piece suits, and I have my dresses," Lacey said, catching the look on her face. Lacey shrugged. "I'm sure you've noticed that extraction's a very fashionable business."

"Why _is _that?" Ariadne asked, fiddling with her signature scarf.

"Psychologically, defining one's sense of style helps dreamers ground themselves in reality and define themselves within the parameters of a dream," Arthur said. "Looking like oneself helps one feel like oneself. We naturally create and cling to a constant."

In the side view mirror, Ariadne saw Eames roll his eyes.

"That, and what else are you going to spend your millions on but clothes?" Eames said. "You can't take cars or homes or even much jewelry with you on a job. Clothes are the way to go, darling."

Arthur glanced at Eames' less than pressed slacks and his unbuttoned collar. "Whatever your definition of clothes."

Ariadne realized how shabby she must look next to Arthur in his designer suits, Lacey with her Gucci boots, and even Eames with his Prada leather jacket.

"I guess I should buy some new jeans or something," Ariadne half joked.

"I take it Arthur hasn't told you how much you have in your bank account?" Eames said, catching her eye in the mirror. "You could probably buy a hundred pairs of jeans, starting with Calvin Klein and working your way up."

"Oh, please –"

"Last time I checked, your assets added up to $50.6 million. I took the liberty of creating several accounts at different banks under different names, of course, but it's all yours."

Ariadne felt the world spin for a moment. It was Eames' chuckling that steadied her.

"What's so funny?" she demanded, chucking her glove at him.

"Only $50 mil? I think your boyfriend's been holding onto your share for you."

"_Only?_" Ariadne repeated incredulously. "I'm – that makes me – _rich_."

This time, Arthur laughed. "Yes, we're all very, very rich."

"So remember that next time he sticks you in coach," Eames teased, earning her second glove in the process.

Ariadne glanced at Lacey, who had remained silent during their exchange. She just caught a painfully longing, wistful expression on the redhead's face as she stared at the back of Eames' head before Lacey noticed her gaze and fixed a neutral, polite expression onto her face once more.

The empty warehouse Eames had moved their operations to reminded Ariadne of the one they used in Paris to plan the Fisher inception, but a lot cleaner and a lot colder.

He had already set up their workstations, complete with modeling tools and materials for Ariadne, and a large whiteboard to organize and display information for Arthur. The two other desks were fairly empty except for rudimentary office supplies – and they were the farthest away from each other.

"Well done, Eames," Arthur complimented.

"You don't need to sound so surprised, darling. I know how prissy you can be about your work area."

Ariadne twirled a new scalpel expertly between her fingers, aching to get to work with the bricks of clay and cardboard moldings waiting for her and glad that she was right next to the heater. Numb fingers and knives did not mix well, as she had learned the hard way in Moscow.

"Well, this is certainly an improvement from cramped basements with one desk and one lamp," Lacey said, starting to move toward the table closest to Ariadne.

"Lacey, since you and I will be working with a lot of the same information, would you like to take this desk?" Arthur said suddenly.

Ariadne suppressed a smile, knowing the motive behind Arthur suggestion. If Lacey took the desk near her own, Eames and Arthur would be forced to occupy the desks opposite each other, and she knew first hand that there would be no end of bickering over Eames' messy workstation or the squeaking of Arthur's chair as he balanced on its back legs.

Lacey's and Ariadne's eyes met as Lacey changed courses and walked to the other desk. Lacey smiled at Ariadne in mild amusement, and it took Ariadne a moment to realize that Lacey probably understood Arthur and Eames' complicated relationship as well as she did … maybe even better?

It was a startling and slightly disconcerting thought.

"His hate obviously outweighs his jealousy," Eames murmured, jolting her out of her thoughts.

He leaned conspiratorially toward Ariadne and watched as Arthur glowered at him from over her shoulder.

Ariadne feigned innocence. "If you had just set it up so Arthur and I were next to each other, and you and Lacey –"

"As your stick in the mud boyfriend said, it works out better this way," Eames quickly said. "They work on whatever they work on, and I can help you sculpt in ways Arthur's girly fingers could never do." He wagged his eyebrows suggestively at her.

Lacey more quietly took her place opposite Arthur. "You still can't stand to work next to him?" she asked in a low voice as she adjusted the height of her chair. "How can you open up your mind to someone you can't tolerate in person?"

"Oh God, here comes one of his sayings," Eames muttered.

"You have to take the good with the bad," Arthur answered promptly, snapping open his briefcase and starting to sort some files. "In terms of Ariadne and Eames, it's the best with the worst, but I like a challenge."

Eames drummed his hands on his table. "Everyone ready for the pièce de résistance?"

He led the way to a sheet that hung on a clotheswire on one side of the warehouse. Ariadne had assumed it was a makeshift changing area for privacy, but Eames grabbed a hold of it and pulled, sending clothespins flying everywhere.

Instead of the usual plastic lawn chairs that Ariadne always complained about, there were four very comfortable looking settees, the expensive suede kind found in psychiatrists' offices.

"_Now _I believe we're rich," Ariadne said, testing out the nearest one.

"A bit conspicuous, aren't they, Eames?" Arthur frowned. "If whoever delivered these were suspicious –"

"Not as suspicious as lawn chairs in Alaska," Eames interrupted.

Ariadne laughed. Even Lacey's eyes were twinkling, though she turned away when Eames looked in her direction. Arthur bowed slightly, acknowledging the hit.

"Let's put them to good use, then," Arthur said, getting the PASIV device and setting it up on the coffee table in the middle of the four settees.

"Who's the Dreamer?" Ariadne asked, lying back comfortably as she took the IV line Arthur handed to her.

Arthur and Eames looked confusedly at her. Her gaze flickered between both of them self-consciously.

"What?"

"Oh, of course you wouldn't know," Arthur said, handing IV lines to Eames and Lacey. "Lacey will be our Dreamer most of the time now. That way, we don't have to worry about avoiding projections, and things won't get ugly when they start to notice."

"Of course," Ariadne murmured.

"You'll be able to build and build without a subconscious waiting to mob us down," Lacey added in a small voice.

It was a peace offering shyly extended by the new girl, who (Ariadne had to remind herself) wasn't really the new girl. Ariadne didn't answer her. As soon as Arthur had set the timer, she stuck the needle into her wrist and was off dreaming.

* * *

**A/N: Please review!**


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